


Four Visits From the Spirit of Curling

by Seascribe



Category: due South
Genre: Crack, Curling, Gen, Ghosts, More Joy Day
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-10
Updated: 2014-01-10
Packaged: 2018-01-08 04:30:55
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,601
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1128384
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Seascribe/pseuds/Seascribe
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Scribe: "Also now I am imagining the Spirit of Curling as, like, a thing. A ghostly entity that visits you on Christmas Eve to show you the error of your uncourteous ways or something." [<a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Curling#Good_sportsmanship">x</a>]</p>
            </blockquote>





	Four Visits From the Spirit of Curling

**Author's Note:**

> The quotes at the beginning of each section are from the Curler's Code of Ethics. Professor Murray MacNeill was the first skip to win the Brier, an annual Canadian men's curling championship, in 1927.

**Benton Fraser, 1973**  
 _"Sportsmanlike behavior should be demonstrated both on and off the ice. This includes modesty in victory and composure in defeat."_

"You played very well today, Benton." 

Benton blinks, rubbing his eyes. He's in his bed, in his pyjamas, but the lantern by the bed--which he's absolutely certain he blew out before going to sleep--is lit. There's a man standing beside him, faintly transparent, wearing a jersey with the maple leaf emblazoned across the front and holding--a curling broom? He appears to be floating several inches off the wooden floorboards. Benton blinks again. He must be dreaming.

"I beg your pardon?" 

"Today at the pond," the man says. "You scored three goals, and thanks to you, your team won. But you were rather unsportsmanlike about your victory, don't you think?" 

"I--" Benton tries to remember. "I don't think so?" 

"No? All that shouting and waving your arms after every goal? Playing up you own skill in front of the others? Crowing with your teammates about your victory?" 

Benton looks down at his lap. "We were just excited. It's just a game." 

The man by the bed shakes his head, like he's disappointed. "It's never 'just a game,' son. It's an opportunity to conduct yourself with dignity, to humble yourself, and treat your fellow players with civility and respect. Is that what you did today?" 

"I s'pose not," Benton says. "Next time, I guess maybe we should be a little nicer." 

"I think so," the man says, and gives him an encouraging smile. "You're a good lad, Benton." 

"Thank you, sir," Benton says automatically. He opens his mouth to say something else, and hesitates, not wanting to do something that will get him chided for bad manners. The man chuckles. 

"Were you going to ask who the devil I am?" 

Benton nods. 

"Professor Murray MacNeill," the man says, giving him a little salute with the curling broom. "Called by some the, ah, the Spirit of Curling." If he were awake, Benton might have struggled not to snort with laughter, but in his dream, it sounds perfectly normal. 

"Pleased to meet you," he says, and when he opens his eyes again, it's morning, and his grandmother is calling him to come to breakfast.

**Diefenbaker, 1994**  
 _"I will never knowingly break a rule, but if I do, I will divulge the breach."_

Dief doesn't feel guilty at all. If Huey hadn't wanted somebody else to eat his donut, he wouldn't have looked away and left it unattended. It was practically a gift. But he knows that Benton doesn't see it that way, because Benton is a human, and humans can be stupid about that kind of thing. So he doesn't tell him. That way, Benton doesn't get upset and Dief doesn't get in trouble. Everybody wins. Except Huey. But that's his own fault. 

"You don't really believe that, now, do you?" Dief doesn't hear the man talking, but he understands the words anyway, just like he does when Benton's father is talking. But this isn't dead-Bob. His hackles go up a little. 

"Benton is well-aware that you did indeed take Detective Huey's snack," the man says. His staticky ghost-smell is like ice and shoe polish and tobacco smoke. "By lying to him, you've only served to strengthen his poor opinion of your reaction to city life." 

Dief bares his teeth a little. Benton eats pizza or Chinese food with Ray at least two days a week. He doesn't have room to judge anybody. 

"It isn't a question of who has the most virtuous diet," the man says. "Rather, it's a matter of honesty, of trustworthiness and respect. How can the pack function, if one of its members is dishonest with the rest?" 

That's not fair at all. Dief whimpers, covering his eyes with a paw. 

"There, you see? Surely the strength of the pack is more important than avoiding confrontation over a pilfered donut." 

Fine. Dief will own up to it. But he's not going to stop taking Huey's donuts, not if he's going to keep leaving them unattended. Benton will just have to deal with it. 

The man sighs. "Well, I suppose that's better than nothing." 

**Ray Vecchio, 1995**  
 _"Fair Play is consistent demonstration of respect for teammates and opponents, whether they are winning or losing."_

Ray drops Fraser off at his apartment after a celebratory dinner at Santorini's and heads home, still feeling full to bursting with triumph and satisfaction at how the day had gone. It wasn't every day you solved a high profile case like the Apland kidnapping and got to rub the Feebs' noses in the mud on top of it. And he'd even managed to keep Fraser from jumping out of any windows or dragging him through a dumpster. It's been a long time since Ray's had a day go this good. 

He's still smiling a little when he climbs into bed, basking in the glow of one-upping the FBI as he falls asleep. 

"To err is human," a voice says in his dream, kind of echo-y, like a flashback voice in a movie. Ray groans. He gets enough of the weird fortune cookie morals from Fraser when he's awake, the last thing he needs is his subconscious chiming in with more. The voice continues, "To forgive, divine. Words to live by, my friend." 

"Yeah, thanks," Ray mutters. "Now go away." 

"First, there's something I'd like to discuss with you." Ray grunts. Apparently, the voice in his dream takes that as permission to keep talking. "Specifically, your behaviour towards Agents Martin and Morris today." 

Ray smirks into his pillow. "Morons." 

"Well," the voice says. "That's really not for me to judge. But tell me, was it really necessary, in the spirit of professionalism and good police work, to publically scorn them for their mishap with the paintball facility? Or impugn their intelligence and sartorial taste with quite so much gleeful invective?" 

"Yes," Ray says promptly. "They're Feds." Hell, even Fraser had smirked a little at the sight of them covered head to toe in paint.

The voice sighs. "But you share the same goals--upholding the law, protecting the public. Surely if the tables were reversed, you would hope for some compassion, some understanding from them?" 

"I sure wouldn't hold my breath hoping for it," Ray retorts. 

Another sigh, deeper this time. "I suppose it would be a waste of my time to suggest that perhaps more positive inter-agency relations might begin with the Chicago Police Department?" 

Ray is getting really tired of this dream. "Tell you what, if I ever come across a Fed who's caught himself on fire, I'll piss on him to put it out, okay?" 

"I really don't think that's in the spirit of--"

"Shut up!" Ray says, so loudly that he wakes himself up. 

**Ray Kowalski, 1997**  
 _"I will take no action that could be interpreted as an attempt to intimidate or demean my opponents."_

Ray lies in his bed, staring at the ceiling and not sleeping. He's still twitchy with the aftershock of adrenaline, from the car chase and interrogation, and his fist hurts like a bitch where he put it through the wall. 

He's about to get up and get a drink of water, maybe turn on the tv, when somebody says, "I doubt your instructors at the academy would have condoned such interrogation methods." 

Ray says, " _Fuck!_ really loud, and reaches over to pull his gun out of his bedside drawer. 

"There's no need for that," the voice says. It's coming from a tall, dark haired guy with a big mustache. He's holding a funny short little broom and has the Canadian flag on his shirt. "I don't mean you any harm." The guy's feet aren't touching the ground, which Ray vaguely feels should bother him more than it does. He lowers his gun, a little. 

"Who the hell are you?" Ray demands. 

"Professor Murray MacNeill," the guy says. "Called by some the--actually, that's not important right now. What's important is the way you conducted yourself in today's interrogation." 

Ray shrugs. "I got a confession of out the guy." 

"Yes, by means bordering on police brutality and intimidation." 

"So I yelled at him a little." Ray shrugs. "He'll get over it." 

"But that's not what they taught you in the academy, is it? Violence? Vulgar intimidation?" 

"That's the language those guys understand," Ray mutters. 

"Perhaps that's because they haven't had any opportunity to practise understanding anything else," the guy says. 

"Geez, now you sound like Fraser," Ray says. 

"What do you think Constable Fraser would have thought of your display today, if he'd been there?" the guy asks softly, and that is not right, no way anybody but Fraser oughta be able to pull that kind of guilt whammy on him. 

"I wouldn't've had to get up in his face if Fraser was there," Ray says. 

"Ah," the guy says, and Ray almost puts a cap in him out of sheer irritation. Fraser can get away with that Canadian one-word crap because he's Ray's partner and Ray's got a certain amount of tolerance for his weirdness. This guy is seriously pushing it. "That might be worth further consideration, don't you think?"

Ray thinks about that subdued, disappointed look Fraser gets in his eyes sometimes, when the world lets him down. Ray doesn't ever wanna be the reason Fraser looks like that. 

"Maybe," he allows grudgingly. 

"Good man," the guy says, and Ray rolls his eyes. "Your heart's in the right place." 

Hey, if that's what he wants to call it, that's fine with Ray.


End file.
